My 35-year Love Affair with Wrestling, Part IV
The National Wrestling Alliance and World Championship Wrestling
Five years ago, I set out to tell the story of how I fell in love with the glitz and chaos of professional wrestling. I’ve shared memories of the larger-than-life Hulk Hogan and the colorful world of the WWF. But before Hulkamania ran wild in my life, wrestling was already part of my family’s DNA. It was there in the background, woven into the fabric of my childhood.
I remember sitting in my grandfather’s living room, the soft hum of the old TV flickering in the corner as he watched Dusty Rhodes battle it out on Championship Wrestling from Florida. The grainy footage, the deep voice of Gordon Solie narrating the drama, all while I was waiting for my Saturday morning cartoons. My uncle was a fan too—obsessed with the Von Erichs, especially Kevin, who flew across the ring barefoot like a human missile. Even my dad and his brother were wrestling fans. And who could forget my grandma, sitting there, mesmerized by the masked Mexican luchadores—El Santo, Blue Demon, Mil Mascaras—who turned those old Spanish-language films into something more like superhero epics. Wrestling was in my blood, but my heart belonged to the WWF.
At the time, the WWF felt like the pinnacle of it all—the big leagues. Everything about it was flashier. The production, the bright lights, the larger-than-life characters. II was hooked on the superstars, the music, and those celebrity appearances. It made the WWF feel mainstream, legit. t was on NBC, after all, a national network. But as much as I loved WWF, I couldn’t help but notice glimpses of another world—the rougher, rawer world of the NWA, the National Wrestling Alliance.
The NWA was different. It wasn’t polished like the WWF. The arenas were smoky, the lighting dim, but it felt real—gritty, almost like a sport more than a spectacle. My first taste of the NWA was through Championship Wrestling from Florida and World Class Championship Wrestling out of Dallas when we’d visit family. I didn’t seek it out then—it just didn’t have the same pull.
But in 1989, something changed.
I remember browsing the magazine aisle at Walgreens, hoping to find the WWF Magazine. Instead, my eyes landed on something different: Pro Wrestling Illustrated, The Wrestler, Inside Wrestling—all these publications that weren’t just about the WWF. They were opening the door to a whole new world of wrestling. One cover stood out. It had the British Bulldogs—two former WWF Tag Champs—battling each other. But there, in the corner, was someone new to me: Lex Luger, the "Total Package," muscles rippling as he squared off against this slick, arrogant guy I’d only briefly seen before: Ric Flair, the "Nature Boy." The name itself carried weight. It felt like I had stumbled upon a secret.
I had seen Ric Flair once, watching with my friend Ivan Garcia, who was a die-hard NWA fan. He showed me a tape of Flair in a cage match against Ronnie Garvin, and even though I didn’t get hooked at that moment, the seed was planted. The magazines added fuel to that curiosity. And then something big happened: Ricky "The Dragon" Steamboat, who had wowed me with the greatest match I had ever seen at WrestleMania III against Randy Savage, was now wrestling Flair in the NWA. I couldn’t believe it.
How could this be? How could anything top that WrestleMania match? And how could I watch it?
It was the start of a wrestling awakening for me—1989 was the year that wrestling expanded beyond the WWF in my world, and it came at me like a freight train.
I tried finding NWA wrestling, Pro Wrestling This Week, and World Class on WBFS, but Channel 33 wasn’t airing them anymore—only WWF and GLOW remained. I resigned myself to the fact that I couldn't see that match. But then, later that year, two incredible things happened: I met a best friend, and my family got cable TV.
A neighborhood friend, Rudy, knew I was a wrestling fan and introduced me to someone who would become one of the best friends of my life—a real brother—Alex. Alex lived a block away, and Rudy introduced us the day after WrestleMania V. Along with being a WWF fan, Alex was also into the NWA. Soon after, my family got cable TV. To my delight, I found one of my favorite wrestling shows, WWF Prime Time Wrestling on the USA Network every Monday night.
Then I stumbled upon NWA World Championship Wrestling on TBS, but they never aired matches like Flair and Steamboat. They were just squash matches with jobbers—enhancement talent wrestling the stars to make them look good, to put them over. I wasn't interested in that same old grimy, dimly lit studio wrestling. It seemed so low-budget, so minor league. But then Alex told me to watch an upcoming Thursday night—a special live wrestling event on TBS: Clash of the Champions, where Ric Flair would rematch Ricky Steamboat in a Best 2 out of 3 Falls match.
Soon after that, Monster Video started getting NWA tapes: Chi-Town Rumble, Flair and Steamboat’s first match, and WrestleWar, the finale of their rivalry, where the turn that hooked me happened. Terry Funk, a former legendary world champion from the previous decade—as billed by TV announcer Jim Ross—was one of the ringside judges for the contest.
In the process of Flair recapturing his NWA championship, the fans couldn't help but cheer him for his unbelievable wrestling skills. It was like Rocky IV; by the end of the match, Flair was beloved by the audience for the fighting spirit he displayed on their behalf. Then Terry Funk entered the ring to congratulate Flair, only to double-cross him and attempt to cripple him by piledriving the Nature Boy onto and through a table.
This Terry Funk double-cross was more vicious than that of Benedict Arnold, or when "Mr. Wonderful" Paul Orndorff betrayed Hulk Hogan in WWF, which was the catalyst to my WWF fandom years earlier. It was shocking, brutal, and utterly captivating.
The next big video rental I came across was an NWA pay-per-view called Halloween Havoc. In it, Ric Flair and the super fan-favorite Sting battled Terry Funk and a mysterious, deadly Japanese wrestler named The Great Muta. The match took place inside what seemed like the biggest wrestling cage I had ever seen. The cage match was labeled Thunderdome, inspired by the post-apocalyptic Mad Max movie. The top of the cage was said to be electrified, preventing anyone from climbing out to escape. Victory could only be achieved if your team’s surrogate—a manager stationed ringside—threw in the towel to save you. This match was everything: the grace of Ric Flair, the viciousness of Terry Funk, the coolness of Sting, and the innovative techniques of The Great Muta.
The following month, the blood feud between Ric Flair and Terry Funk came to a head at the next Clash of the Champions, where they fought in a brutal “I Quit” match. This was live on national cable TV on TBS—no pinfalls, no disqualifications, no countouts, no holds barred. The only way to win was to force your opponent to submit in the most humiliating way possible: by saying “I quit” into the ring announcer’s microphone. I couldn’t imagine either of these titans giving in.
They fought all around the ring, brutalizing each other—both men covered in blood, using the very microphone to bust each other open. They choked one another with the microphone cord, shoving the mic in each other's faces and mouths, desperately trying to force those three words out. After an agonizing and violent match, Ric Flair managed to lock in his signature figure-four leg lock. Funk reached for the ropes, but in this no-rules battle, the ropes couldn’t save him. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of struggle, Funk was forced to mutter the humiliating words: “I quit.”
Despite the loss, Terry Funk had nothing to be ashamed of. In the eyes of the fans, he became a wrestling hero for a new generation. His incredible run in the NWA made him a major staple of what many considered to be the best in-ring year in modern wrestling history.
I was now a full-fledged WCW fan. Every Saturday at 6:05 PM, I’d be glued to TBS, watching WCW Saturday Night, which at the time was still called World Championship Wrestling. It came on right after reruns of The Andy Griffith Show and just before Atlanta Braves baseball. On Sunday nights, it was NWA Main Event on TBS, and Saturday mornings were reserved for NWA/WCW Worldwide, which was now back on WBFS Channel 33. Through these shows, I discovered many of the greatest wrestling stars—especially the tag teams, an area where NWA/WCW truly excelled.
There were teams like The Midnight Express, managed by the fiery Jim Cornette; The Fabulous Freebirds, who revolutionized tag team wrestling with their “Freebird Rule”; and The Skyscrapers, featuring the massive Sid Vicious, Dan Spivey, and a young Mean Mark Callous (who would later become the legendary Undertaker), managed by Paul E. Dangerously (Paul Heyman). Then there was the Samoan Swat Team, managed by the brash Paul E. Dangerously (better known now as Paul Heyman); the powerhouse duo Doom, consisting of Ron Simmons and Butch Reed, managed by Teddy Long and the sinister Woman; and the dynamic Steiner Brothers, Rick and Scott, who had Missy Hyatt in their corner. But none were as impressive or as intimidating as the Road Warriors—Hawk and Animal—with their face paint, spiked shoulder pads, and musclebound physiques, managed by Precious Paul Ellering. The Legion of Doom was larger than life, and they defined what it meant to be wrestling monsters.
Just as I had once rented the first two WrestleManias and Best of Hulkamania tapes when I was a WWF fan, I now scoured the shelves for anything NWA-related from Turner Home Entertainment. Monster Video had limited stock, so I started venturing out to other video rental stores. First, I joined Supervideo, which would later become Superstar Video. Their selection was decent, but nothing compared to what a video rental store on Flagler and 97th Ave offered. That’s where I found The Best of Starrcade, and through it, I got to see NWA’s version of the supercard—two years before WrestleMania.
I watched the legendary match where Ric Flair first won the NWA World Heavyweight Championship, defeating the seven-time champ, Handsome Harley Race. I witnessed Flair’s unforgettable feud with the American Dream, Dusty Rhodes, and the brutal “I Quit” cage match between Magnum T.A. and Tully Blanchard. There were also the death-defying Skywalkers scaffold matches and the original Great American Bash. But nothing could top that first Wargames: The Match Beyond—it was chaotic, violent, and revolutionary.
Around this time, what could be considered the final chapter of the old territory system in professional wrestling was coming to a close. Vince McMahon’s WWF national expansion had decimated many of the regional promotions that once thrived. Some tried to go national themselves, while others formed alliances, but ultimately, none could compete with WWF’s aggressive, often predatory, business practices. Verne Gagne’s AWA failed to merge with the Von Erichs’ World Class Championship Wrestling and Jerry Jarrett’s Memphis-based Continental Wrestling Association. Jim Crockett Promotions acquired Mid-South Wrestling, Georgia Championship Wrestling, and the Florida territory, merging them into his Mid-Atlantic Wrestling, but even Crockett couldn’t keep up with McMahon’s expansion.
That’s when media mogul Ted Turner stepped in. As the owner of TBS and the Turner TV networks, Turner had the resources to save what was left of NWA’s mega-promotion. He bought it, rebranded it, and turned it into World Championship Wrestling. With Turner’s backing, WCW could finally compete with WWF on a national scale—and it quickly showed in the production quality. The arenas were brightly and colorfully lit, the wrestling rings looked professional and had consistent branding, and WCW introduced something that would become iconic: rock concert-style entrance stages with lights, smoke, and fireworks. This was long before WWF even attempted anything like it. It was a far cry from the dark, grimy WTBS Center Stage studio where NWA had previously taped their shows.
At this point, I couldn’t in good conscience consider WWF the only “big league” in professional wrestling anymore. WCW had the look, the presentation, and—most importantly—it always had the talent.
Some of the best athletes and most charismatic stars I had ever seen were now set to face each other in a Round Robin Ironman Tournament at the granddaddy of wrestling supercards, Starrcade ‘89: Future Shock. This event would kick off a pivotal moment in wrestling history, setting the stage for 1990 and revealing who would become the next major star of the upcoming decade.
Right before Halloween Havoc, the legendary Four Horsemen reformed—this time as a fan-favorite faction. The new lineup featured the original Horsemen: Ric Flair, the Enforcer Arn Anderson (who had just returned from WWF), and Arn’s O.G. Minnesota Wrecking Crew partner, Ole Anderson. But the question remained: who would be the fourth Horseman? The once-villainous faction was now embracing their roles as fan favorites and needed someone who could bring them even more credibility. That man was Sting.
Sting had already proven himself in the Thunderdome, where Ole Anderson served as the team’s manager and surrogate. So, in December, it was a no-brainer for Ric, Ole, and Arn to recruit the charismatic blond surfer, who was quickly becoming a rising star in the wrestling world. This modern iteration of the Horsemen had an incredible lineup, but how long could these original Horsemen function while playing by the rules? Starrcade would put that to the test.
The Ironman Tournament at Starrcade ‘89 was designed to showcase the best of the best, with every wrestler competing against each other in a round-robin format. Unlike the single-elimination tournament WWF had done at WrestleMania IV, where fans were often left wanting more, the round-robin structure guaranteed that each competitor would face off against every other participant in a single-fall match. The winner would receive a world championship match at a future date, adding even more stakes to an already high-pressure situation.
There were two tournaments—one for singles competition and one for tag teams. The singles tournament featured the Great Muta, the Total Package Lex Luger, the incomparable Sting, and the six-time NWA World Heavyweight Champion, the Nature Boy Ric Flair. On the tag team side, Doom, the Samoan Swat Team, the Steiner Brothers, and the Road Warriors battled it out. It was an exciting night of dream matches and fantasy booking, with fast-paced action testing the endurance and stamina of every competitor. The goal: to become the Iron Man of wrestling and perhaps the next world champion.
The Steiner Brothers were a standout in 1989 and showed flashes of the greatness that would cement their legacy as one of the top tag teams of the 1990s. But on this night, the spotlight belonged to the dominant team of the 1980s—the Chicago street fighters, the post-apocalyptic Road Warriors.
In the final match of the evening, the two top scorers in the singles tournament faced off: Ric Flair and his recent partner, teammate, and fellow Horseman, Sting. Just a year earlier, at the very first Clash of the Champions, Flair and Sting had wrestled to a legendary time-limit draw, which had overshadowed WrestleMania IV. Now, they were fan favorites, tag team partners, stablemates, and seemingly friends. But could that alliance withstand the pressure of such a high-stakes match? Could Sting beat the Wrestler of the 80s, Ric Flair, in just 15 minutes?
This was Future Shock, and Sting did exactly that. He stunned the crowd, the champion, and the Horsemen when, in the final seconds of the match, Flair looked poised to submit Sting. But at the last moment, Sting countered with an inside cradle, pinning Flair for the 1-2-3. Sting had defeated Flair. The question now was: were we witnessing the rise of the wrestler of the 90s finally defeating the wrestler of the 80s?
But just as the celebration began, the mood shifted. Ole and Arn Anderson stormed the ring, visibly upset that Sting hadn’t laid down for the leader of the Horsemen. Now, Sting was in line for a shot at Flair’s world title, and the tension within the Horsemen was boiling over.
I came late to the NWA, but better late than never. Through the magic of videotapes, I was able to relive many of the great wrestling moments of the 1980s, and thanks to Alex, the PWI family of magazines and cable TV, I got to experience what many consider the best in-ring wrestling year of the decade. The 1990s kicked off with the meteoric rise of the Ultimate Warrior in the WWF and, even better for me, the rise of Sting in the NWA.
Sting’s journey—his alliance with the Four Horsemen, the shocking betrayal, his injury, and Lex Luger’s redemption when he came to Sting’s rescue—built to their unforgettable Superpowers Alliance. Sting’s eventual triumph at the 1990 Great American Bash was the crowning moment. But soon after, wrestling went through a rough patch. The early to mid-90s saw a dip in both popularity and creativity. Ric Flair’s departure from the NWA to the WWF left a void, and it felt like wrestling would never be as cool as it once was.
Then came the Monday Night Wrestling Wars and the Attitude Era, a revival that no one could have predicted. But no matter how many eras came and went, I’ll never forget 1989. It was a phenomenal year for wrestling, from the rise of Sting to the epic culmination of the WWF’s Mega-Powers storyline, leading to the Hogan-Warrior Ultimate Challenge. In many ways, that showdown mirrored Sting’s unseating of Ric Flair—a passing of the torch to a new era, and for me, the perfect end to wrestling's greatest year.
But 1989 wasn’t just great—it was revolutionary for the NWA. Flair and Steamboat’s trilogy set a new standard for in-ring storytelling, blending athleticism and drama in ways wrestling fans had never seen. Yet, it was more than just that. The brutal and unforgettable feud between Ric Flair and Terry Funk, culminating in the legendary I Quit match, showcased the violent intensity that kept fans on the edge of their seats. Alongside that was the gripping drama of the Four Horsemen reforming and Sting’s rise within the group, only to be betrayed—a storyline that perfectly balanced friendship, betrayal, and redemption.
These three pillars—Flair vs. Steamboat, the Flair vs. Funk feud, and the Horseman-Sting saga—were the backbone of NWA’s incredible 1989. Every Saturday at 6:05, the NWA felt alive with unpredictability. New stars emerged, legends cemented their legacies, and each moment felt like a chapter in wrestling’s most compelling novel. No other year captured that magic, and no other wrestling promotion embraced it as authentically as the NWA did in 1989.
